


On a Breath of Snow

by andimeantittosting (Saylee)



Series: Collection of Andimeantittosting's Harlequin fics [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Alternate history - it's the 1800s but they just legalized same sex marriage, Christmas, Getting Back Together, M/M, Reunion, Snowstorms, past non-romantic Castiel/Kelly Kline (marriage for practical purposes only)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22063303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting
Summary: Once, Castiel, Duke of Rexford, gave up the love of his life in the name of duty and honour. He has dedicated his life to raising his son Jack. Now, a fierce snowstorm brings Dean, Viscount Winchester back into his life on Christmas Eve. And as North Cove Castle's fires burn warm and festive, so do Dean and Castiel’s feelings of hope.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Collection of Andimeantittosting's Harlequin fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/927501
Comments: 30
Kudos: 193
Collections: Destiel Harlequin Holiday Cheesefest Challenge 2019, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	On a Breath of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Destiel Harlequin Challenge Cheesefest 2019. My prompt was:
> 
> _**CHR19  
> **  
>  Christmas with the Duke  
> After being snowed in on Christmas Eve at Loughmore Castle with first love Ciara, Tom Benson, Duke of Bainworth, knows there’s still something magical between them. And as the castle’s fires burn warm and festive, so do Tom’s feelings of hope…_
> 
> Many thanks to the mods for running such a fun event! Thanks also to the marvelous MalMuses for being my beta reader and cheering me on.
> 
>  **A quick note on historical accuracy:** While research was definitely involved in writing this fic, ultimately my goal was to capture the feel of a regency romance novel, and in places, strict historical accuracy has been sacrificed in the name of story.

Of all the rooms in the vast pile of a castle that he had inherited upon his cousin Lucien’s untimely but well-deserved death, the north study was by far Castiel’s favourite. It was not a large room. It had originally been built as a private prayer room for the first duchess, but had been long unused following the construction of the family chapel some generations later, until a later duke had it converted into a study as a personal retreat from his family. The room had changed very little since that time, safe from the vagaries of fashion that had plagued the rest of North Cove Castle, each subsequent duchess seeking to make her own mark upon the ancient home.

It was a masculine room. A plush rug covered the cold stone floors, and arrayed on it were a sofa and two deep armchairs upholstered in a buttery brown leather. The walls were lined with dark wooden shelves, which were themselves lined with countless books collected over the centuries. And as the centerpiece of the room, a fire crackled cheerfully in the fireplace, beneath a mantle draped with pine boughs and holly in recognition of the season, putting off enough heat to compensate for the fact that the heavy drapes had yet to be drawn against the wintery draught from the snowfall outside.

All in all, the effect was one of cosiness, and Castiel, Duke of Rexford, took a moment to mourn that he had no one to share it with.

He swirled the brandy in his glass and took a warming sip, watching the flurry of snow outside the window. The castle was quiet. It was Christmas Eve, and he had dismissed most of the servants to pass the holiday with their families. The only exceptions were the cook, Monsieur Lafitte, whose family in France were too far away to visit, and Nora Clarke, Jack’s nanny, whose own small daughter shared his nursery. 

The children, of course, were asleep. Castiel had read Jack his bedtime story, just as he did every night that his duties allowed. This night, it had been the Christmas story. Jack had wrinkled his nose over the wise men’s gifts, and Castiel had agreed that they were very silly gifts to give a baby. He had finished the story as Jack’s eyes fluttered shut, and reached a hand out to smooth the golden flax of his hair.

“G’night, Papa,” Jack had mumbled, already drifting off. “I love you.”

Something bright and sharp had pierced Castiel’s heart. “Goodnight, Jack. I love you, too.”

With one last kiss to the little boy’s forehead, he had sought out Mrs. Clarke, who was putting her daughter Tanya to bed as well. “You will be alright with the children for the night?” he had asked. “I feel bad, on Christmas Eve…”

“I will be just fine, your grace,” she assured him. “I will have my night off when the housemaids return. And Mr. Lafitte has offered to keep me company for the evening.” She blushed at that, but Castiel only nodded and wished her a happy Christmas; unlike others of his class, he did not consider it his place to interfere in the romances of his servants, so long as everyone behaved with honour. He was happy for them, even. They would make a good pair. He could not begrudge them this happiness.

But while his son slept soundly, and his servants bore one another company, Castiel was spending Christmas Eve alone.

Perhaps if Kelly had lived…

But, no. While he had cared for Kelly a great deal and mourned her death, there had been no finer feelings involved in their short-lived marriage, only duty and compassion on his part, and gratitude on hers. Though he had never said as much, he knew she had guessed that his heart resided elsewhere. Had she survived childbed, their friendship might perhaps have grown, but never romance.

A gust of wind whipped past the walls of the castle, rattling the glass in the window frames, and Castiel glanced outside with a frown. The snow was coming down heavily, covering the long drive and gusting about with great force. If the weather didn’t cease, they would likely be without servants for much longer than one day, and the roads would be impassable.

Though time had dulled the wound, rarely did a day go by without Castiel thinking of the love he had been forced to sacrifice.

If only things had been different. If the law they had been waiting for had passed five years ago, rather than last month. If Lucien had not been a reckless, bombastic fool, always spoiling for a duel, until he got one. If Castiel had not learned of Kelly’s plight…

And yet, if events had not come to pass exactly as they had, Castiel would not have Jack, the very thought of which sent a pang through his chest. There was nothing in the world he would not give up for his son. If only…

If only Jack could have been  _ theirs. _

Castiel sighed heavily. Christmas was making him maudlin. He contemplated the contents of his glass, watching the way the flickering firelight illuminated the amber liquid. 

He was lost in thought when movement outside the window caught his eye, something large, almost obscured by the whipping of the snow. He put his glass down on the table beside him with a decisive clink, his brow furrowing as he peered out into the storm. And there, more movement—a shadow approaching, beginning to take form, bit by bit, until Castiel recognized what he was seeing: a horse and rider, heads low against the wind, picking their way carefully towards the lights of the castle. And tonight, of all nights, when there was no one on duty.

Castiel rang for Monsieur Lafitte in the kitchen, then remembered that he was with Mrs. Clarke, and rang the bell for the nursery instead. Uncaring that he was in his shirtsleeves, waistcoat unbuttoned and cravat loose about his neck, he hurried forth to meet his servants in the great hall.

“I am sorry to cut your evening short,” he greeted them in a rush, already throwing one of the footmen’s cloaks over his shoulders. “There is a traveller outside, on horseback. I intend to bring him in from the storm. Monsieur Lafitte, will you prepare a hot toddy and a warm repast? Mrs. Clarke, please locate dry clothes. I will help him stable his horse, and then bring him to the north study. Please bring the food there.”

Without waiting for a response, trusting Monsieur Lafitte and Mrs. Clarke to do as requested, he grabbed a lantern and shouldered his way out the front door into the storm.

*****

Dean, Viscount Winchester, cursed himself for a fool. He ought to have stopped in North Cove village for the night. The sun had already set, and snow was falling when he had stopped in the local inn for an ale and a hearty meat pie to sustain him, and it was falling harder still when he prepared to depart, but stubbornly, he had decided to press on. He told himself that he wished to surprise his godfather on Christmas Eve, but if he were to be truthful with himself—not a habit he liked to indulge in—it would be too painful, spending the night so close to North Cove Castle, or rather, to its master.

So, against all good sense, he had called for Baby to be saddled again, and had ridden out, only to swiftly be overtaken by the rising storm. It was a veritable blizzard, the wind wailing high through the trees, and driving white snow obscuring all but the vaguest shapes. His godfather, Baron Singer would tear a strip off him when he arrived—if he arrived. The old man didn’t know he was coming. If anything, he believed Dean was still in Scotland.

Icy fingers crept beneath Dean’s many-caped greatcoat, and he hitched his muffler higher about his face, hunching against the cold. He ought to have stayed in Scotland, celebrating Christmas with his brother, as they had planned. He would have, had he not felt like an intruder every time he looked at Sam and his happy family. Sam and Rowena were radiant with love, despite their rocky start, and doted on baby Fergus, as if he were the most perfect child in the world. There had been no place for Dean, not really. 

He had declared his intention to visit Singer Hall, and left with only Baby for company two days before Christmas.

Now, Baby made a huff of protest as Dean urged her to continue forward, and he patted her neck encouragingly. His fingers were stiff with cold inside his gloves. He began to grow worried. He had covered very little ground, and could not be certain he had not turned in a circle at some point. He would have to find shelter soon, for himself and his horse, even if it were the meanest shepherd’s hut. Anything to get out of this wind before they both froze.

He strained his eyes, hoping to see a structure, any structure, up ahead. For once, luck was with him, because there, out of the whiteness, loomed a large hulking shape, lights glowing in several windows.

“Come on, Baby,” he urged, nudging his heels against her sides. “Just a little further.”

As the black mare picked her way cautiously forward, a door was flung open, and a cloaked figure, likely a footman, hurried out into the snow, headed for Dean.

_ Thank God.  _ He sagged in his saddle. 

And then the approaching figure called out, “Hello?” His lantern cut through the haze of snow as he came closer, illuminating the face that Dean knew went with that voice. 

He groaned. 

“ _ Dean?” _

*****

“ _ Dean?” _

Even with the thick muffler obscuring half his face, as soon as he came close enough to see, Castiel recognized his eyes. He always would. He stared, struck dumb, and Dean lifted a shoulder in a sheepish shrug.

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”

Before Castiel could come up with a proper response, a particularly sharp gust of wind cut through them both. Dean’s shiver brought him back to himself. “Let’s get you and Baby indoors. The stables are around this way. I’m afraid we’ll have to tend her ourselves,” he apologized, “as I’ve given the grooms the night off.”

“You remember her,” Dean said, something odd in his voice as he followed behind Castiel towards the stables, keeping close to not lose him in the snow.

“Of course. You loved that horse. And I—” Castiel clamped his mouth shut.  _ Loved you. _

He turned at the door of the stable, and in the lantern-light, saw the tightening around the corners of Dean’s eyes. There was a time when Castiel could easily read every emotion that passed over Dean’s face, but now he couldn’t be sure—was that hurt or was that anger? All he knew was that Dean was displeased.

“Dean…” Castiel tried, but Dean turned his back to him to dismount.

“It’s fine,” Dean said, leading Baby in by her reins. There was something heavy in his voice. “You did your duty.”

Castiel swallowed and cast his eyes to the ground. He had done his duty, but the harm he’d caused—to Dean, and to himself…

Were it not for Jack, he’d wish he could undo it all.

“Come on.” Dean jostled him out of his guilty thoughts as he moved to unfasten Baby’s bridle. “Help me get her settled so we can get inside.” 

Castiel kept a wary eye on Dean, who had been travelling so long in the cold, but luckily, now that he was in the shelter of the stable, he did not seem to be suffering any ill effects from exposure.

Together, they removed Baby’s tack and brushed her until she gleamed. Castiel found her a blanket, and they set her up in a comfortable stall, with an extra serving of oats for so bravely carrying Dean through the storm. Castiel tried not to watch as Dean gave her a final scratch behind the ears, murmuring to her affectionately, before they left her to the warm stable, and made their own way into the castle.

Mrs. Clarke met them by the stable-side door behind the kitchens, while Dean was still unwrapping his snow-wet muffler.

“I have placed dry clothing for our guest in the blue chamber, your grace,” she informed Castiel, “and I took the liberty of laying a fire and putting fresh linens on the bed. Mr. Lafitte is merely waiting on your signal to bring out the tray.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Clarke.” Castiel gave her a gentle smile. “You have thought of everything. I will show Viscount Winchester to the room you have prepared. Please have Monsieur Lafitte set the tray out in the north study in ten minutes, and then you may return to the children.”

Mrs. Clarke curtsied and hurried away, and Castiel led Dean towards the stairs, trying not to think about the fact that the room chosen for Dean happened to be directly beside his own.

“Children?” Dean inquired mildly as they climbed, though there was an edge to his voice that had never used to be there before. “I knew of the one, but I thought your wife…”

“Kelly died in childbirth, yes. The nanny, Mrs. Clarke’s daughter resides in the nursery, along with my son, Jack.”

“Your son,” Dean repeated, the edge more apparent in his voice. “Not Lucien’s then?”

Castiel paused at the top of the staircase, turning to face him. “Regardless of his origins, Jack is my son. He does not know any different, and neither should anyone else.” A fierce protectiveness burned in his blood.

It must have shown on his face as well, because Dean swallowed and nodded. “Understood. It was not my place to question.”

“That’s not true.” Castiel softened. “If anyone is owed answers, it’s you.” He waited, but Dean had no reply, so with a sigh, he turned away towards a door to the left of the staircase. “This is the blue chamber. Mrs. Clarke will have laid out something warm and dry. I will wait outside, and then show you to my private sanctuary.”

*****

Ten minutes later found Dean ensconced in a comfortable leather armchair before a crackling hearth in the cosy north study. A swathe of pine and holly over the mantle added an air of Christmas cheer. Dean had noticed similar decorations throughout the rest of the castle as well.

Thanks to the efforts of the good Mrs. Clarke, he was dressed in dry clothing and wrapped in a brocade dressing gown. By the quality of the clothing, he suspected it belonged to the master of the house himself, and the furtive looks Castiel kept sending him over his hot toddy only confirmed his guess.

For his part, Dean was also having difficulty keeping his eyes to himself, though the hot meal before him also occupied much of his attention. Castiel’s cook had provided a rich, hearty meat pie that had Dean groaning as he took the first bite. He chanced another glance at Castiel, and noticed the colour high in his cheeks. God, but it was unfair that the man had only grown better looking in their years apart. Despite Cas’s reluctance to take on the title following his cousin Lucien’s ill-fated duel, as far as Dean could tell, the ducal life was treating him well.

Certainly, fatherhood suited him well. Dean recalled the fierce protectiveness and love he’d heard in Cas’s voice, when Dean had questioned Jack’s parentage. His own heart had swelled in answer, even as he’d felt a sharp pang. A large part of him wanted to resent the child, for being the reason for Dean and Cas’s long separation, but how could he resent him, when he was clearly such a part of Cas?

“So,” Cas said at last, after a long silence. He didn’t look at Dean, focusing instead on the warmly crackling flames. “How is your fiancée?”

That brought Dean up short. He paused in his eating, fork poised halfway to his mouth. “Fiancée?”

Now Castiel glanced sideways at him. “Forgive me. The last I had heard, your betrothal to Lady Celeste Middleton was to be announced any day. Has that not come to pass yet?”

Taken by surprise, Dean let out a bark of laughter. “Clearly the gossip mill is slow to reach you so far north. With the passage of the new law, Lady Celeste wasted no time in marrying the publishing heiress, Miss Baum. The two are currently off gallivanting across the continent on a honeymoon.”

There was a gratifying sound of relief in Castiel’s breathed, “Oh.” 

“You were not disappointed by that outcome?” Castiel questioned, and there was genuine concern in his voice.

The corner of Dean’s mouth twisted up wryly. “Fear not, history has not repeated itself. Lady Celeste and I are merely good friends. There is only one person I have ever wished to marry,” he added pointedly.

If Dean had wondered if he’d truly forgiven Castiel for the past, by his reaction, he knew that he had. If he had still harbored ill-will towards Castiel, he might have taken a sick joy in the distress that openly crossed Castiel’s features at his words, but as it were, he only felt the urge to lean forward and take Castiel’s hand within his own, so familiar and so long-missed.

The look that passed across Castiel’s face set Dean’s chest to aching.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice was low and rough, a confession. “I owe you an apology.”

“Cas,” Dean argued. “You were only doing your duty.” How he had hated those words, when Castiel had uttered them five years ago! How he had resented Castiel for putting duty before all else. But as the adage went, time healed all wounds, and what better time for forgiveness than Christmas?

When Kelly Kline had appeared on the newly-minted duke’s doorstep, pregnant with Lucien’s child, unmarried, and with nowhere else to turn, what else could Castiel have done but marry her? Where Lucien had broken his promises, even before getting himself killed, Castiel had restored her honour and provided her child with the home and family every child deserved. 

If Castiel had turned her away, or had simply fobbed her off with money, leaving her to raise her child a bastard in an unforgiving society, he would not be the man Dean had fallen in love with. 

Dean rubbed a thumb softly over Castiel’s knuckle. “You broke no oaths. We were not betrothed.” At the time, he had raged and snarled, called Castiel all manner of ugly names. Even when his anger had abated, he had not been able to speak of him, or even think his name. He had known of Kelly’s death, but could not bring himself to send his condolences. He hadn’t realised that time and distance had brought him understanding, until he and Castiel had once more been face to face. Despite everything, Castiel was still very much the man Dean had loved.

But Castiel shook his head. “We were not betrothed, only because we did not know it would ever be a possibility. But I loved you. I considered us betrothed in my heart, and had we known—”

Dean gave his hand a squeeze. “Had we known, you would not have your son. And it seems you love him very much.”

Castiel’s blue eyes were very serious. “I do, Dean, so much. I cannot describe to you the fierce joy he brings me. And yet. I have regretted hurting you, and I have missed you, every day.”

Dean gave him a crooked smile. “I have missed you, too, though I have tried not to. But perhaps we can again be friends.”

Castiel’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Friends. Yes, I would like that.” He made to withdraw his hand, but Dean stopped him, holding tight, suddenly sure that some things had never changed.

“Or perhaps, more than friends.”

At that, Castiel looked up sharply, the look of hope in his eyes mirroring the feeling taking root in Dean’s heart. “Yes, Dean. I would like that very much.”

The first meeting of their lips was chaste, separated as they were by the occasional table between their armchairs, but it carried all the sweetness that Dean had been longing for these past five years. Above their heads, the clock chimed twelve.

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean murmured against his beloved’s lips.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

*****

Little else happened that night, beyond a few more similarly chaste kisses, and a slightly more heated one outside the door of Dean’s borrowed bedchamber. Castiel, after all, had a small son to think about, and small children could be expected to rise early on Christmas morn, especially those who had been given special permission to wake their doting papa and drag him from his bed.

Despite the early hour and the abrupt awakening of a small child colliding headfirst with his bladder, Castiel was in a remarkably cheerful mood as he let his son lead him down the greenery-swathed staircase to the large, morning room, which was similarly bedecked. As one of the more modern additions to the castle, it featured large windows, through which bright sunlight streamed.

With most of the household absent, and Dean likely to sleep late—he had had a trying ordeal the evening before, and he had always been bear-like when forced to rise early—Castiel had opted to remain in his nightshirt rather than force Jack to wait patiently while he dressed. He had donned his second-favourite dressing gown overtop, a quilted velvet in a deep marine blue. His favourite was the brocade that Mrs. Clarke had given to Dean last night, but Castiel would happily go without it forevermore, if it meant that he would see Dean in it. 

Jack was also similarly clad in his nightshirt and an oversized wrapper, Mrs. Clarke evidently having decided that the proprieties could wait to be observed until a later hour. Castiel was glad for it. He would not be one of those aristocrats whose children were only trotted out of the nursery in formal dress, to show off their accomplishments to distant parents and then sent back to the care of their nurses. He wanted every moment of informal family time he could get.

“You are happy, Papa,” Jack observed. “Is it because it’s Christmas?”

Castiel pressed a kiss into Jack’s sweet blond hair. “It is. It’s because I’m spending Christmas with my very favourite boy. And do you know? I believe there is a stocking full of gifts, just for you.”

Jack squealed with delight and wriggled loose. Castiel followed at a more sedate pace, and unhooked the stocking from the mantle, handing it to child, who plopped onto his bottom right there on the carpet to examine its contents.

The moment was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. To Castiel’s surprise, when he called out to come in, the door opened to reveal not Mrs. Clarke or Monsieur Lafitte as he had expected, but Dean, clad in the brocade dressing gown and smiling sheepishly.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your morning,” Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face, the way he always had when he felt awkward.

Castiel smiled to see it and crossed the room to take his hands in his own. “Not at all. Jack was opening his stocking, but I’m sure he’d be delighted to meet you.” 

Sure enough, Jack had paused in examining his treasures, an orange in one hand and a tin soldier in the other, to stare openly at the newcomer. “Who are you?” he asked, with his characteristic innocent frankness. 

Some men would not like to be questioned so, but thankfully, Dean just chuckled. “I’m Dean, or Viscount Winchester. I’m a friend of your papa.”

“Viscount Winchester arrived last night, after you were asleep,” Castiel explained.

“Like Saint Nicholas?”

“Only a little like Saint Nicholas. Though I did bring you this.” Out of the pocket of his dressing gown, Dean withdrew a small wooden carving of an antelope. Castiel recognized it and melted, for Dean had always carried the wooden impala, gifted to him by his father, with him as a talisman.

“Dean,” Castiel murmured, but Dean merely beamed up at him.

“I think it’s time to pass this along. Here you go, Master Jack.”

Any objection Castiel might have had to Dean giving away his treasured possession was wiped away by the enamored way Jack took the toy from Dean. He even remembered, unprompted, to say thank you, before diving deep into a fantasy game with it. In a little while, Castiel would remind him that there were still items in his stocking, and he had gifts for Jack himself, but for now, he was content to watch him play.

Dean’s arm wrapped around Castiel’s waist, and out of instinct, Castiel tipped his head to rest against Dean’s.

“I’m sorry that I have no gift for you,” Dean said quietly.

“There is nothing to apologize for.” Castiel let his hand settle on top of Dean’s. “You have brought me yourself, and that is all I could wish for.” Satisfied that Jack was not paying attention, he turned his face, and pressed a kiss to the stubble of Dean’s as-yet unshaven cheek, delighted by the way the colour rose in Dean’s face in response. 

It seemed that Jack was more observant than Castiel had given him credit for, because he paused in his game, and regarded the adults very seriously. “Papa,” he asked, “is the viscount your special friend?”

“Oh, ah, yes.” Caught off guard, Castiel stumbled over his response. “That is, I hope that he is.”

“I am,” Dean confirmed, turning to face him, his intent clear in his eyes. 

“Good,” Jack declared. “Then you should be married.” Apparently satisfied, he returned to his new toy, leaving Castiel and Dean staring at each other in wonder.

“It is legal now,” Dean pointed out after the silence, heavy with meaning, had stretched out long enough.

“It is,” Castiel agreed. “Though it is rather sudden.”

“Is it?” Dean caught Castiel’s hands in both of his. “I would say it was years in the making, wouldn’t you?”

Castiel had no good argument against that, nor did he wish to. “Then Happy Christmas, Dean, and this time, I will marry you.”

Dean’s lips met his in a breathtaking kiss, and outside the sun gleamed on the fresh, white snow, welcoming in a new day.


End file.
